


Go on going on

by tucuxi



Category: Naruto
Genre: M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-05 01:00:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3099128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tucuxi/pseuds/tucuxi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Iruka is <em>fine</em> with his life just the way it is, hitches and glitches and all.  He's got his quirks: so do all shinobi.  Then Tsunade comes into office, partners him with Kakashi, and shakes everything up.  </p><p>A/N: Both the "No warnings" and "Non-Con" tags might seem contradictory.  This story includes mention of past trauma: no graphic descriptions of the events in question, but I included the trigger tag just to be safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Go on going on

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gryvon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gryvon/gifts).



> Gryvon's prompt:  
> Because the archive warnings inspired me, I'd like to see Kakashi helping Iruka recover after something tragic has happened to him, be it rape or torture or loss of a loved one.
> 
> All my love, internet cookies, and thanks to my invaluable beta, P, without whom this story would have been twice as long and said half as much. Badly.

Iruka sat in the hallway outside Morino Ibiki’s office and focused on holding onto the scroll in his left hand. He hoped he wasn’t bleeding on it through the field dressings. 

“Umino Iruka?” Ibiki’s door opened by itself. Iruka entered the bright room and stood before the desk. 

“You can sit down,” Ibiki said. The scars on his face and scalp were still shockingly red, even though it had been nearly three months since whatever had happened to him, and Iruka tried not to stare.

Iruka glanced down at the scroll in his left hand and placed it on Ibiki’s desk as if he were depositing a baby bird there, all gentle gestures and care. Then he sat in the wooden chair facing Ibiki’s desk. Seated, his head was just a tiny bit below Ibiki’s. Standard interrogation procedure, Iruka knew, his mind cataloging everything the same way it had been doing for days. To put me off my guard, make me think he’s in charge. 

Ibiki unrolled the scroll, scanned it, nodded, rolled it back up again, and placed it in a desk drawer. 

“Thank you,” he said. The words sounded almost stilted. Iruka knew he hadn’t been doing post-mission interviews for long. “Well done, concealing it on your person.” 

Iruka started to shrug, then reconsidered. He could still feel the ghost of the broken ribs where the Iwa nin had kicked him a few days ago.

“The scroll was my mission,” he said. Then, because that seemed ungrateful, he added “I wouldn’t have gotten it out if Hayate’s team hadn’t found me.” 

Iruka folded his hands in his lap, fingers of both hands bandaged, right fingers splinted, and wondered what happened next. He didn’t really know where to start. He’d never been captured before. Iruka licked his lips. They tingled unpleasantly, and he resisted the urge to clench his hands into fists. That just hurt more. 

“Why don’t you start from the beginning,” Ibiki prompted. Iruka let out a long breath. 

“Okay,” he said. “You’ve read the mission scroll?” Ibiki nodded. It had been a perfectly straightforward C-rank solo mission, picking up a scroll from a Konoha outpost. “I was ambushed by three formerly-Iwa nin near the border,” Iruka started. “They caught me in a rockfall. I keyed the scroll to my chakra signature, transformed it, and swallowed it before they caught me, having already set two decoys in my pack and in my vest.” 

That was standard procedure; so far, so good. Nothing wrong there, except being caught.

Ibiki nodded. 

“They took me to a nearby cave and searched my gear and my person.” Iruka heard his voice, even and steady, and wondered at himself. 

Ibiki nodded again. Iruka supposed that silence meant he was supposed to keep talking. 

“They kept my vest and bound me hand and foot with chakra-suppressing manacles. When I didn’t talk, one of them worked me over, broke some of my ribs and some of my fingers.” Iruka waved his splinted right hand vaguely. “I don’t think they really expected to get much out of me, at that point. They already had the two decoy scrolls, which were keyed to my chakra signature and would have burst into flames if I died.” He was proud of that part, at least. 

“So they didn’t kill you,” Ibiki said. Iruka shook his head. His hair brushed against his cheek, and he pushed it awkwardly away with his left hand. Strands stuck in the adhesive tape on his fingers, and tugging them free made his scalp hurt so much it nearly brought tears to his eyes.

Ibiki was looking at him oddly. He’d just said something, and Iruka had missed it.

“What?” Iruka asked. This wasn’t like his other mission debriefings: he had no idea what the script was supposed to be. He held perfectly still, waiting for the next question, the one that would make it clear exactly what Iruka had let them do to him. Iruka prayed for time, for just a few more moments of Ibiki’s regard.

“It’s a good thing Hayate’s team re-routed that direction. I personally recommend you go to the hospital,” Ibiki said. “It all sounds fairly standard, but your ribs might do better if a medi-nin takes a look at them.”

 _ _Fairly standard__ , Iruka thought, incredulous. Ibiki flipped to the next sheet of paper on the single stack on his immaculate desk, his lack of attention a clear dismissal. 

“Wait,” Iruka asked, “is that it?”

Ibiki looked at him oddly. Then he shook his head, as if remembering something. He opened a different desk drawer and pulled out a sheet of paper, holding it out to Iruka.

“Right,” he said. “First time. This is the name of the T&I counselor,” he said. “Call them if you have nightmares that interfere with your work.”

Iruka stared at it, blank. Anko’s stories about her interviews after her return to Konoha had led him to expect more questions, more detail, more intrusiveness. It was odd, but he realized he had actually been hoping Ibiki would ask him the same questions. Maybe they only asked you those questions if you’d been kidnapped by Orochimaru. Maybe they only asked if you were a kunoichi. Maybe the things that had been done to him didn’t happen to other shinobi often enough to be worth asking about.

Iruka stood. He didn’t take the piece of paper. He really didn’t want to talk about it right now, and if he needed the phone number later, he could always ask Anko who to talk to. 

“Thank you,” Iruka heard himself say. “I think I will get my ribs looked at.” 

Soon enough, he reassured himself, it would all be like a bad dream. 

**

A few weeks later, Iruka wove his way back through the crowded bar toward the booth his friends had taken over for the night. Izumo waved, and Iruka raised a glass of beer in salute. When he got back to the booth, he saw that Anko had joined them. 

“Iruka!” She jumped up, and bracketed his face in her hands. He flinched and beer slopped out of one of the glasses he held. 

“Party foul!” someone called. Anko grabbed the two glasses of beer, put them on the table with a sharp comment and easy grace and spun back to face Iruka.

“Iruka,” Anko complained, “your hair is shorter than _mine_ now!” He tugged at hers playfully, her stubby little pigtails still growing back asymmetrically after an encounter with a fire-jutsu user a few months back. 

“Isn’t that how it’s supposed to work?” Iruka asked, slipping into the seat she’d vacated and taking a long drink from his beer. “I mean, girls have long hair, right?” 

“Hey!” Kotetsu’s girlfriend protested: her hair was shorter even than Iruka’s, a spiky pixie-cut no more than an inch long. “Not all of us like having handles on our heads, you know. Take your stereotypes somewhere else, sensei.” Iruka’s mouth went dry, but he flashed her a conciliatory smile.

“Sorry,” he said, hunting for a way to make his slip into a joke. “I just got a bit sick of being called “ma’am” in the grocery store.” Kotetsu chuckled, and Anko flat-out laughed. “Besides,” Iruka continued, warming to his theme, “I’m about to start at the Academy and I’ve heard horror stories about bubblegum and long hair.” Even Kotetsu’s girlfriend unbent enough to quirk a smile at that, and Iruka drained his pint, sending Anko up to get the next round, since he’d spilled half of this one.

The first couple of weeks after his capture had been rough, and he’d been right about them sticking him on easier missions, but Iruka still hadn’t called the counselor Ibiki had offered. He couldn’t help but remember the previous person to be captured by those same nin, a kunoichi who had come back in looking shaky and uncertain and sick when someone had touched her, how gossip had spread through Konoha like wildfire.

The poor girl — only a recent Academy graduate, he thought — was sitting at the bar tonight, her friends hovering protectively and awkwardly. It had been months, but it seemed like people just kept wanting to bring it up, whether she was part of the conversation, or only its topic. He didn’t even know what her specialty was, just what the grapevine said the Iwa nin had tried to do to her. 

Part of Iruka wanted to go over to her seat at the bar; most of him just wanted to pretend the two of them had nothing at all in common. She looked up and caught him staring: he flushed, and looked aside quickly. 

“Irukaaa!” Anko chorused, shoving him aside with a seated hip-check that would do Might Guy proud, “make space, we’re going to get seriously, seriously plastered tonight.” 

“Wait,” Iruka protested, “what?”

“Celebration!” she announced. “I’m taking the tokubetsu jounin tests, and you’re about to start training as an Academy sensei!” 

“You mean, you’re both flaming bonkers,” someone hissed — probably Izumo — and Iruka couldn’t hold back a laugh. 

“Okay,” he said, “sure, fair enough. But you’re buying. I heard the rank of that last mission you went out on.” Anko just flashed her white teeth in a shark-like grin, and plunked a glass on the table in front of him. 

**

Naruto’s graduation took Iruka by surprise, but things only really changed after the Sandaime’s death. Orochimaru’s attack had killed so very many people; Iruka took shifts at the mission desk so that shinobi who didn’t work at the Academy could take week-long missions, and his security clearance rose alarmingly quickly. 

The new Hokage took a dim view of Konoha’s protocols for post-mission debriefings, particularly where injury was concerned. Perhaps it shouldn’t have been a surprise from the woman who had integrated medi-nin into four-man teams. 

“You’re telling me no one has to visit psych?” she asked Iruka one afternoon. Shizune was at the hospital, which meant Tsunade had been staring out the window with pursed lips. At least when Shizune was in the Hokage’s office with them, Tsunade pretended to attend to her paperwork. Iruka’s presence seemed to have no such salutary effect on the Hokage’s work-ethic.

“No?” Iruka said, wishing it hadn’t come out as more of a question than a statement. “I mean, you _can_. But most people don’t.” Tsunade glared at him. 

“Well, that’s stupid,” she said. “Why bother having psych nin if they’re not seeing shinobi who have been traumatized?” 

As a shinobi who had never been to see psych, Iruka really did not want to have this conversation. 

“Being a shinobi is difficult and dangerous,” Iruka argued. “Everyone knows that going in. It’s not like we’re unprepared.”

Tsunade’s glare didn’t slacken. 

“Well,” Iruka tried, “we do know that. So do our friends. Everyone helps someone through something at some point.” 

He probably knew more about Anko than any of her coworkers in T&I she certainly knew more about Iruka than anyone else living. They’d spent a weekend curled together in Iruka’s parents’ big bed, once, after Anko had come back from her first botched ANBU mission. Being an Academy instructor had left him with fewer scars; sometimes he worried that it made him less able to help. 

But Iruka had never asked Anko for the phone number Ibiki had offered him; talking to Anko about it had helped some. Not letting anyone close enough to discover his aversion to certain kinds of touch helped, too. It was lonely sometimes, but Iruka was used to it, and the arguments with boyfriends were too draining to be worth what little comfort they provided. 

Tsunade sighed. “You’re not trained for it,” she pointed out, eyes disarmingly sharp. “Psych is.”

“And psych visits go on your permanent record,” Iruka pointed out, “and some people use them as evidence of instability when promotion comes up.”

The Hokage’s face darkened. “Yes,” she said, “so they do.”

 _Danzo_. The name hung in the air between them. Iruka wondered if his awareness of Danzo’s presence in Konoha politics was why Tsunade had appointed him to help clean out the Sandaime’s office, but the time for asking had long since passed. He sighed, and shuffled papers on his small desk. It had been shoved in the corner of her office and seemed alarmingly likely to become a permanent fixture. 

“You’re working on hospital paperwork?” she asked. Iruka nodded. It wasn’t technically his job, but Tsunade hated it. “Give me that,” she said, and grabbed it away from him. He gaped at her. “You have a new job,” she said. “Start figuring out how to get people to go see psych.” 

Iruka felt his expression shift to outright incredulity, shock at the non-sequitur overriding his attempts to keep an even keel in front of his new Hokage. Tsunade sighed, rubbing her forehead with one hand.

“We can make it confidential,” she offered. “Actually confidential, not the bullshit half-sealed records they have now.”

Iruka frowned, considering. That might help, but it was only part of the problem. After returning from Orochimaru, Anko had been bedeviled by gossip for months, and her visits to psych had been mandatory. It could be even worse for those who went in voluntarily; even their friends sometimes bet on when they’d crack up. 

“Why me?” Iruka asked, trying to keep his tone level, as if he were only abstractly interested. Tsunade couldn’t have heard anything about his mission; he hadn’t told anyone except Anko, and she was still deeply suspicious of a new Hokage who chose to wear a henge at all times.

“You know most of Konoha, nowadays,” Tsunade pointed out. “If anyone can convince people that going to psych is okay, it’s not going to be a Hokage who appeared out of nowhere. It’s going to be a solid, trustworthy member of the community.”

 _Right_ , Iruka thought, _solid and trustworthy_. He grimaced. 

“Hokage-sama,” he started, but she cut him off.

“Don’t give me that bullshit,” she snapped, settling the stack of hospital paperwork on the table in front of her. “If you’re going to call me that, then you can damn well do what I tell you.”

Iruka sighed, and stared at his hands. 

“I’m not sure I’m the right one,” he said. “Tsunade-sama, you may not know -- I didn’t make chuunin until I was _sixteen_. I’m not exactly a role model for elite Konoha shinobi. You might get more genin and maybe some chuunin to go in, but --” he paused, trying to put his thoughts into words. He tried: “We’re not the ones who pose the biggest risk if we snap.”

Tsunade’s eyes went wide, her spine straight in indignation. Iruka, unaccustomed to being the recipient of such direct attention from this Hokage, stifled a flinch. 

“Is that what people think psych is about?”

“Well,” Iruka said uncertainly, covering it with a shrug. “They tell you to come in if anything starts interfering with your work.” 

Tsunade spun in her chair and glared out the window, muttering under her breath. Iruka was pretty sure he caught the word “geezers” and a few less-than-complimentary sobriquets. 

Iruka sat back, looking at the empty desk in front of him. He had no idea where to start with something like this. A whisper campaign? He wasn’t sure whether Tsunade realized what using Iruka as a poster-boy for psych visits was likely to do to his life. She might be ruthless enough not to care, if she thought it would benefit enough other shinobi. 

Iruka tried to imagine a world in which everyone went to psych after each mission, and his mind boggled. He tried again, thinking about a world in which all casualties went to psych after encountering enemies on a mission. The logistics were better, but he had a hard time imagining everyone being willing to go in. They’d have had to drag him in kicking and screaming because of the fear of repercussions; now he was so accustomed to _not talking_ about it and working around his quirks that going to psych seemed pointless.

Tsunade abruptly stood and shoved a thick folder marked “Mandatory Psychological Consultation Protocol” into his hands. This was no whim, if she had the paperwork drawn up and ready. Iruka felt his chances of escaping sink through the floor.

“Come on,” she said, and stood, drawing Iruka along after her. 

They walked to the hospital in an awkward silence of which Tsunade seemed either entirely unaware or completely uncaring. Iruka followed Tsunade into a room on the third floor and stopped flat-out. Their destination was one of the standard single-occupant rooms, the large window propped open and curtain billowing in the breeze. Hatake Kakashi sat propped up against a stack of pillows in the metal-framed bed, gazing toward the window with a troubled expression on his face. Kakashi sat up straight when Tsunade entered, but he slouched again as soon as he saw Iruka, as if he didn’t want to be seen to care quite that much. Even that little action seemed to drain him. His hair was flatter than usual and the scar over his eye looked dark against his paper-pale skin. 

“Tsunade-sama,” Kakashi rasped. Iruka suddenly remembered the rumors about Uchiha Itachi and about Kakashi and Sasuke being awakened from a genjutsu-induced coma. The Tsukiyomi was one of the worst genjutsu on the books. Maybe it wasn’t _Iruka_ Tsunade was worried about. 

“Hatake Kakashi,” Tsunade said, “meet Umino Iruka.”

“We’ve met,” Iruka managed, flashing back to the disastrous chuunin exam meeting. “Tsunade-sama, what --” 

“Good, then I don’t need to introduce you!” Tsunade said brightly, ignoring the tension in the air as if it were someone else’s problem. Iruka supposed it was. 

“Has psych come by?” Tsunade asked, and Kakashi just shrugged. “So you told them to get lost,” Tsunade interpreted, “and they were scared enough to go.” Her glare would have wilted a lesser man, but Kakashi just looked back at her, visibly exhausted but not at all cowed by his Hokage’s obvious ire.

“Congrats, kid,” she instructed Kakashi, “you’re working with Iruka-sensei on getting everyone to talk to psych. Have fun.”

And she sailed off, medi-nin trailing in her wake. 

Hatake Kakashi and Iruka stared at each other for a long moment. 

“Well, Hatake-san” Iruka said, “I suppose now is as good a time as any to get started.” He pulled a chair towards Kakashi’s bed and sat down, pulling out the fat folder Tsunade had handed him, a pad of paper, and a pen. 

“You’re with psych now?” Kakashi asked. His voice was gritty and very, very soft. His hostility was palpable. Iruka thought that if Kakashi had been able to spare the chakra, the room might have been full of killing intent instead of just Kakashi’s surprisingly effective one-eyed glare.

“What?” Iruka asked, sincerely surprised. “No!”

“Then I really don’t need to talk to you,” Kakashi concluded. “So get lost.” He slouched back farther into his pillows, clearly dismissing Iruka. He closed his eye.

“I don’t give a damn what you want,” Iruka bit out, stung at being so quickly written off. “And the Hokage just gave me a job, so I’m damn well going to do it.” Kakashi’s eye flickered open, surprise clear in the wrinkling of his brow. His expression seemed much more open without the hitae-ate, even with the mask covering the lower half of his face.

“No,” Iruka translated, “you’re not going to get rid of me that easily.”

Kakashi cocked his head to one side, but his expression was slightly more open now. 

Iruka spread the papers on his lap, looking over the panoply of forms that he’d be willing to bet most Konoha nin had never seen. “Tsunade wants to normalize going to psych and make it confidential. The idea is to change things so it can’t be used against promotion.” 

That part seemed like a good idea to Iruka. And maybe, just maybe, if they got the Copy Nin on board, it might work. Kakashi was no friend of Danzo, and he was fiercely loyal to Konoha, so he had no political reason to oppose Tsunade’s initiative.

“She’s got a bee in her ear about it,” Iruka confided. He looked around the empty hospital room, and thought of how Kakashi had been sitting up with his eye open when they came in, not sleeping. “I imagine you’ve had enough sleep recently, anyway,” he guessed. “It’ll pass the time.” 

The look Kakashi gave him then was considering; it seemed Iruka had just surprised him. Iruka felt weighed by that dark gaze, as if more than just his words was being held in the balance. 

“All right,” Kakashi grated, and held out a hand that trembled slightly. “Give it here.” 

**

Anko set a pair of glasses in front of Iruka and perched on the spindly wooden arm of his chair. 

“Taking a break?” Iruka asked. If she’d meant to stay she would have taken a seat -- possibly by kicking someone else out of theirs. She balanced between him and Genma, lounging comfortably on a one-inch piece of wood as only a shinobi could. Iruka didn’t think she’d last more a than two minutes, tops, before she went back to her beau. 

“Letting him wonder,” Anko replied. “Help me out, Iruka.” 

“Wonder?” Genma asked, “He’s not gonna buy that. It’s _Iruka._ ” 

Iruka looked away, glancing over Anko’s shoulder to see a curious young man staring at him. Iruka recognized him as part of a new delegation from one of the larger civilian cities on the borders of Fire country. 

“New-to-Konoha merchant,” Iruka observed, and put a hand on Anko’s shoulder as he turned back around. “You’re so going to owe me,” he mentioned. “And if he offers to fight me for your honor --”

Kakashi choked on his drink and Genma slapped him on the back so hard that Kakashi’s feet slipped. Iruka moved his own out of the way to keep from being kicked. 

“What,” Anko asked, and her tone was all false modesty layered over obvious amusement, “Kakashi, you haven’t heard that story yet?”

Asuma raised an eyebrow at Iruka.

“She does this from time to time,” Genma explained, “uses Iruka on poor marks who don’t know better.” 

“Marks!” Anko exclaimed. “That makes it sound so -- so predatory!” She grinned and leaned into Iruka’s touch, laughing. Iruka could practically feel the glare coming from the young man Anko had left at the bar. 

“Anyway,” Genma continued, “it’s a test.” 

Kakashi looked blank, but Iruka knew Kakashi wasn’t as up on bar culture as some people. Kakashi had sent Genma into gales of laughter a few months ago by not realizing that he was expected to buy a whole _round_ of drinks, rather than only his own. Iruka had asked Kakashi to join them a few weeks after their joint project started. He told himself it had nothing to do with Kakashi being just Iruka's type: tall, lean, and competent, and everything to do with Kakashi being good company and seeming lonely when he wasn't frantically over-taxed by fieldwork. _Maybe it’s jounin trust issues that keep him from doing what Anko does_ , Iruka thought. He kicked himself; it shouldn’t matter to him why Kakashi didn’t understand the finer points of picking up dates in bars. _He’s good company_ , Iruka reminded himself. _That’s more than enough, and it’s all I’m going to get._

“If they’re shinobi,” Anko explained, “they should already know we’re just friends. If they don’t, I’m not about to waste the time.”

“Ah.” Kakashi nodded. “And the challenge?” Iruka groaned, and Anko laughed at his embarrassment.

“A few years ago,” Genma picked up the story, “after a chuunin exam, this poor schmuck staggered over and challenged Iruka to a duel for besmirching Anko’s honor. Or possibly his own honor. It wasn’t very clear.”

“Yes, well,” Iruka said, “I’m just as glad not to do that again.” Anko patted him on the shoulder and stood. 

“Then that should do it,” she said, and sauntered back to the bar. Iruka shook his head and took a sip of his drink. Anko would send over another in a few minutes: she always did.

“Besides,” Genma said, “It’s _Iruka_. The idiots should really know better than to be jealous of _him_.” Iruka felt a familiar pang of frustration, but shoved it down with the instincts born of long practice before anything could show on his face. 

“You don’t date?” Kurenai asked Iruka, exchanging an unreadable glance with Asuma. She was curled into Asuma’s side closer than their oft-protested only-friendship warranted, not that anyone would comment on it. The wooden benches could hold three shinobi easily, but Asuma’s posture made it clear that anyone who tried to horn in on their space would regret it. Kakashi and Genma, on the other side of the table, sat separated by a cautious shinobi’s distance; friends, but not about to test it.

“It’s not really my thing,” Iruka said, shrugging it off. “I’m just as happy to help Anko out, but don’t tell her I said so.” He winked. “She might stop buying me drinks.”

“He doesn’t date because they can’t keep up with him in the sack,” Genma said, winking at Iruka.

Iruka remembered the last time he’d had sex and schooled his features into exasperation rather than panic. Tsuzumi had been kind and well-meaning, clean-shaven and younger than Iruka. It had still been an unmitigated disaster. 

“Genma,” Iruka said repressively, glaring, and Genma just grinned at him. Kakashi leaned in, hands clasped around his glass. Iruka looked away, trying not to wonder for the millionth time whether Kakashi’s fingers were as calloused as they looked. It wasn’t as if he’d enjoy finding out. 

“What?” Genma said, “I’m tired of Anko’s theories, let’s hear someone else’s.” He turned to Kakashi. “You’ve been saddled with Iruka for, what, six months now? Why doesn’t he date?”

Kakashi blinked slowly. Iruka recognized it as a delaying tactic -- not real surprise, but a comical imitation. It drove Iruka crazy when they were working on paperwork together for Tsunade.

“You don’t have to answer,” he said, hurriedly. “Genma’s drunk.” 

Kakashi cocked his head to one side, considering Iruka. Then he grinned.

“Maybe his standards are too complicated,” Kakashi offered. “I knew someone once who would only consider busty blondes who were ambidextrous and capable of whistling his favorite song.” He paused. “Then again, he was rather peculiar.”

Kurenai laughed. Iruka wondered whether anyone else realized Kakashi was referring to Jiraiya-sama, the famous Toad Sage of Konoha. 

“Iruka’s too kinky,” Anko said, leaning over Iruka’s shoulder. “Clearly.” She tugged on Iruka’s ponytail and waltzed out the bar door with her merchant. He'd given up on a short hairstyle when he kept forgetting to get it cut, but Anko was still the only person he could stand to have touch his hair these days.

“Or he’s hung up on someone,” Asuma said. 

If you substituted “something” for “someone,” that was uncomfortably close to the truth. Instead of shrinking back into his chair, which would have been as good as an admission that Asuma had hit the nail on the head, Iruka forced himself to glare, treating Asuma just like Genma. Asuma might be a super-elite jounin, but he was also the Sandaime’s son, and Iruka had seen him often enough while he was playing shogi with the Hokage for some of the awe to wear thin. 

“What is it,” Iruka asked, “open season?” He glared at Asuma. Going on the offensive would work to change the subject, he decided. “I noticed Inuzuka Hana following you around.” 

In the crook of Asuma’s arm, Kurenai conspicuously did not react by so much as a blink. She might as well have shouted her interest in the topic.

“She’s a kid,” Asuma said hurriedly. His arm, stretched out behind Kurenai, twitched slightly. “Besides, I’ve always been a little put off by Inuzuka women. They’re so … overt.” Iruka saw him glance at Kurenai’s reflection in his glass: she probably noticed it, too. 

Kurenai sat up straighter. 

“Kakashi,” she said, “what about you? You haven’t seen anyone in ages.”

Kakashi started visibly. Perhaps that was one of the perks of being the Copy Nin and not hanging out in bars: no one asked direct questions about your love life. Except other elite jounin who wanted to keep their own lives out of the spotlight, apparently.

“Eh,” Kakashi said, waving a hand vaguely. “I keep busy enough.” 

“Sure,” Iruka chimed in, making an exaggeratedly skeptical face. “And your reading habits have nothing to do with it?” He waved Kakashi’s copy of _Icha Icha_ , which he’d had in a vest pocket since earlier that afternoon. 

Kakashi snatched the Icha Icha volume, smacking Iruka’s fingers in the process. Iruka had a moment to envy his speed and the warmth of his touch as the book disappeared back in the belt pouch it called home. 

“That,” Kakashi said, “is fine literature.”

Kurenai laughed. 

“Really, Iruka,” she chided, “you should know better than to get between Kakashi and his books.”

“I don’t know about that,” Iruka said lightly, “taking them away is quite effective. He’ll actually focus on paperwork.”

Asuma blinked at him. 

“He lets you _keep_ his books?” He looked at Iruka as if Iruka had just gained an aura or jutsu of which Asuma had been previously unaware.

“I do have to hide them,” Iruka confided, trying not to let Asuma’s attitude disconcert him too much. Surely it wasn’t _that_ unusual that Kakashi let Iruka take custody of his books. Tsunade had certainly done it in the hospital when Kakashi had read passages at her. She’d given them to Iruka as hostages for Kakashi’s good behavior. 

Asuma sat back with a thoughtful, “Huh,” and a smile on his lips Iruka didn’t like. He was looking between Iruka and Kakashi as though he’d gotten an idea -- a terrible, impossible idea. 

It kept Iruka quiet the rest of the night. He tried to remember to talk to Genma more often or to ask about Kurenai’s genin team. No more offering stories about himself; they gave people too many opportunities to make up stories about Iruka that weren’t true.

The only thing he wasn’t strong enough to do was move. Just because he and Kakashi would never be the nice story Asuma wanted didn’t mean Iruka was going to give him up entirely.

“Dammit,” Kakashi said, watching Asuma hold the door open for Kurenai as they left, “if they’d waited another week, I wouldn’t owe Anko money.” Iruka just shook his head. He wished he were happy for them instead of just relieved not to be on display.

“You bet against Anko where gossip was concerned?” Kakashi shrugged, as if that weren’t a crazy rookie thing to do. “Kakashi,” Iruka pointed out, “she’s in T&I for a reason.” 

“Well,” Kakashi said, “it could be worse. Guy bet on last month, and now he owes her a favor, not just money.” Iruka felt his lips twitch.

“Let me guess,” Iruka said, “Guy was betting on the strength of youthful feelings and the bonds of affection?” 

Kakashi nodded, and struck a remarkably Guy-like pose, eye twinkling as he scrunched his eyebrows up in imitation of Guy’s mobile features. “My Eternal Rival! Do you not trust in the Power of Everlasting Love!? We must read the True Language of their Hearts!” Several people turned around to see when Might Guy had entered the bar. Iruka burst out laughing, and Kakashi pinked across the cheekbones. 

Iruka felt a swell of affection for this impossible man, mixed up with something that might have been growing attraction. He resolutely tamped it back down where it belonged. There were good reasons Iruka didn’t date.

Kakashi settled back in his seat, adjusting his mask the way he did when he was slightly self-conscious and a little bit tipsy, and Genma plunked down a pair of drinks and turned to go. 

“There’s my round,” he said. He twitched the tip of his senbon towards a pink-cheeked girl at the bar whose pale blonde hair and light eyes proclaimed her family more clearly than any badge, “someone wants to compare senbon techniques.” His tone made the innuendo amazingly filthy, and Iruka felt himself begin to flush.

“Get going,” he said, affecting unconcern and waving a hand. “You wouldn’t want to miss out on those advanced _Yamanaka senbon techniques_.” 

Anko and her beau had left some time before Asuma and Kurenai, and it was getting late. 

“I think I’m going to call it a night,” Iruka concluded. Something Iruka might have almost called disappointment flickered across Kakashi’s features, but it was gone too fast to be certain.

“At least finish the drinks,” Kakashi suggested. Iruka wasn’t sure it was a great idea, but he didn’t have anything much to do tomorrow other than errands, and he knew Kakashi wasn’t going out on a mission until Monday. He shrugged, and drained his almost-empty beer, pulling one of the new ones Genma had just deposited on the table toward him.

“Can Guy do as good an impression of you as you do of him?” Iruka asked, somewhat at random. 

“What?” Kakashi’s brow furrowed, and he considered. “I don’t know.”

“You can challenge him,” Iruka suggested. “Impersonate the other, no henge allowed.” Kakashi’s eye crinkled in the way that meant he was trying not to smile too widely, and Iruka bumped shoulders with him companionably. 

“See if you can get him to carry around a copy of _Icha Icha_. Though,” he paused for a moment, locking eyes with Kakashi, “that might make Neji spontaneously combust from sheer embarrassment.” Something else occurred to Iruka, and he grinned. “And if Rock Lee started reading _Icha Icha_ , I think Sakura might kill you.” 

He spoke lightly, but Kakashi’s expression grew troubled, as it always did when someone mentioned any member of Team Seven. 

“She’s doing well, Iruka said, wanting to get Kakashi out of the dark mood that sometimes accompanied that grimace. “She and Ino and Hinata came by the Academy recently for one of my classes on specialized ninjutsu.”

Kakashi looked up, still subdued, but he was looking Iruka in the eye as if he wanted to hear more. For all that he bore the Sharingan, Iruka had found that Kakashi still thought very much as someone who had not grown up with a bloodline limit. Even when working late in the Tower, Kakashi seemed to like to hear about Iruka’s efforts to bridge the information gaps between Konoha’s largest and smallest clans. 

Iruka steered conversation instead towards Konohamaru’s antics. In this class, he’d insisted that “if Naruto-nii-chan’s genin teammate could kick a Yamanaka out of her head, he could do it, too!” and Ino had marched him around the classroom using his scarf as a jump-rope.

Kakashi shook his head, laughing at the image. 

“Udon and Moegi kept trying to stop him,” Iruka added, pitching his voice high in imitation. “ _Konohamaru-chan! Konohamaru-chan! Stop, you’ll trip!_ \-- I think he was more annoyed about Moegi’s obvious worry than about anything else about the whole thing!” 

“He does want very badly to be like Naruto,” Kakashi admitted, but it seemed the black mood had passed. His leg bumped against Iruka’s under the table, a warm and solid presence. Kakashi gave the impression of a lean, wiry frame, but his slouching posture concealed more muscle than most people gave him credit for. Iruka supposed it wasn’t a surprise, given that Kakashi held his own against Guy in taijutsu-only bouts on a regular basis, but the misdirection that wiry impression involved was impressive in its own way. 

“Hmm,” Iruka said, taking another drink. Genma and the Yamanaka girl were leaving together now. _Everyone’s leaving in pairs tonight_ , Iruka thought. _One of those nights, I suppose_. It seemed to happen every now and then, seasonally or in response to good or bad news or just undercurrents of want or need. _I remember when I did that_ , Iruka thought, and shook his head to clear it. 

Kakashi was looking at him strangely, and his fingers twitched on the table, long, thin, and impossibly pale in his half-gloves. 

“I wonder where Naruto is,” Iruka wondered, though he half-regretted it the moment he’d spoken. It sounded maudlin even to his own ears. “I mean --” 

“Hmm,” Kakashi said, which was no answer at all. He shrugged in the way that particularly annoyed Iruka, and Iruka took breath to protest -- surely if anyone here knew, it was Kakashi. 

Then Kakashi leaned in and kissed him square on the mouth.

Iruka froze; he hadn’t even see Kakashi pull his mask down..

Kakashi’s lips were bare against his, warm and soft and unchapped. The pressure increased, and Kakashi opened his lips slightly, leaning in closer and raising a hand to the side of Iruka’s face. 

Iruka jerked away, but Kakashi’s firm grip on the nape of his neck held him in place, and Iruka felt panic start to well up, unasked-for, inappropriate and viscerally overwhelming. He pressed his lips together hard, biting the insides of his lips almost hard enough to bleed and making his response even more clearly a rejection.

When Iruka wrenched himself away, Kakashi looked back at him, mask back in place and an expression of slight consternation on his face. It was clearly not the reaction he’d anticipated.

“What was that?” Iruka bit out. Kakashi raised an eyebrow at him. “No joking around, Kakashi. What the hell was that for?” 

“You really don’t date,” Kakashi said, as if he were surprised that this bit of gossip had turned out to be true.

“No.” Iruka replied. “I really don’t.” 

“Ever?” Kakashi peered at him over his drink. He didn’t look hurt, particularly, or surprised. It was more as if Iruka had just become a particularly interesting puzzle. “Why not?” 

The adrenaline was still running cold and swift in Iruka’s veins, and he glared back, angry and uncomfortable at his own response. 

“So people don’t do things like that,” he bit out, and shoved out of the bar, not caring how much of a fuss he made in the process. 

**

It was an awkward few days after that. Iruka worked on Tsunade’s psych initiative paperwork at night instead of going out to the bar and prepared for Guy-sensei’s visit to his class. Iruka had started these lessons after Hinata’s capture, seeing the girl wilt day after day with self-blame and conviction that she would never be a competent kunoichi. The fact that the lessons also included instructions on what to do if sexual assault came into the picture was all Iruka’s idea, and was part of the reason Iruka had asked Guy-sensei to help out -- he didn’t think anyone could seriously imagine Guy committing assault, himself included. 

When Iruka opened his classroom door and saw Kakashi standing there, it took all his considerable self-control to keep from slamming the door in Kakashi’s face. 

“Kakashi-sensei,” he said, instead, his tone cold and professional, “is Guy-sensei all right?” 

“Hm?” Kakashi looked up from his ever-present book and shrugged. “Oh, he’s fine. I’m here for your lesson instead.” Iruka’s hackles went up. 

“I’m glad Guy-sensei is in good health,” he bit out, instead of ‘ _You over-bearing asshole, who gave you the right?_ ’ or anything else he really shouldn’t say in front of his students. “Please, come in and take a seat. We were about to start talking about reactions to fighting a stronger opponent.”

Class was subdued: Guy-sensei’s over-dramatic sparkling and tendency to make speeches usually livened things up, but Kakashi’s laconic presence seemed to have the opposite effect. Iruka ended that section of lessons earlier than usual, seeing all of his students -- even Konohamaru -- shrink away from the opportunity to fight a jounin. The section on talking to teammates was even worse: where Guy-sensei’s open demeanor invited confidences, Kakashi’s masked face and lazy expression made Iruka’s students clam up, and only Moegi, characteristically brave, volunteered a story. 

Kakashi hung around after class was over, and Iruka couldn’t exactly hop out his classroom window with one of Konoha’s most elite jounin waiting in plain sight for him at the Academy gates; not without a lot of really awful gossip making the rounds, especially given the number of people who had apparently been at the bar the previous weekend. 

Iruka found he was angry at having the decision about whether to talk to Kakashi taken out of his hands so neatly. It was exactly the kind of casual manipulation he taught his students on a regular basis, but being on the receiving end of it felt like being used, like Kakashi was casting Iruka as the mark on a mission, rather than as a friend. 

“You’re coming with me,” Iruka snapped, slinging a bag of Academy paperwork at Kakashi. It only infuriated him more when Kakashi caught it easily, snatching it out of the air one-handed and balancing the heavy sack with unconscious ease, walking alongside Iruka with no sign of discomfiture. 

“You seem touchy for someone who just got away with teaching what I’ve been told is something of a controversial lesson plan,” Kakashi observed. 

He probably didn’t mean anything by it, but Iruka was tired of people looking askance at his training students to survive _all_ of the hazards life might throw their way. 

“Yes,” Iruka bit out, “well, you can tell Guy that later when you explain to him why I’ll have to ask him to come in to repeat the lesson.” Kakashi’s stride almost faltered, the hesitation almost imperceptible unless you were looking at it. 

“Besides,” Iruka continued, finding himself unable to stop now that the subject had been raised, “it’s stupid to only teach kunoichi what to do after they get home from being captured by hostile shinobi. It’s not as if they’re the only ones bad things happen to, and giving them tools we don’t give the boys is just cruel. And we don’t teach anyone enough about assault, or how to respond to a teammate being put in that situation.” 

“Hmm,” Kakashi said, his tone neutral, and then “Oof!” as Iruka slung his satchel over Kakashi’s shoulder and dug for his keys in his pockets. They climbed the stairs in silence. Iruka let them in, toed off his sandals, and realized Kakashi had already deposited the paperwork on its appropriate table, weeks of habit kicking in. Somehow, this reminder of the number of times they’d worked together on Tsunade’s paperwork over dinner just made Iruka more upset. 

“You wanted to know why I don’t date, Kakashi-sensei.” Iruka said, gesturing Kakashi into the living room. “So sit down, and I’ll tell you.” His tone made it clear that it wasn’t optional. Kakashi moved warily, stepping into the apartment as if walking into a trap. 

Kakashi settled on Iruka’s couch, and Iruka paced, picking things up from shelves and putting them back down. 

“I didn’t always live like a monk, you know,” Iruka observed. “I wasn’t exactly known for promiscuity when we were teenagers, but I dated.” He looked at the “#1 Teacher!” card in his hand: it was trembling slightly in his grip, and he put it down quickly. 

“Then we had that spat on the borders five or six years ago when Iwa exiled a handful of people.” 

Kakashi’s posture, observed out of the corner of Iruka’s eye, didn’t shift: he was too much of a shinobi’s shinobi for that to happen. His stillness now might have concealed surprise or nothing at all.

“Some of them captured me on a routine mission near Iwa’s borders,” Iruka said. “Three men, two of them tokujo.” He shrugged, not sure whether he was trying to convey nonchalance or shrug away the sense memory. His ribs ached.

“You --” Kakashi said, and then closed his mouth when Iruka whirled on him. 

“They caught me in a rockfall, bound me hand and foot with chakra-restraining bonds, broke my fingers and broke my ribs. Then one of them noticed that I had long hair.” _Girly hair,_ the man had said. Iruka could still hear the raspy voice. _Let’s see how good a girl you make, then, Konoha_. 

Iruka sat down on the couch as far from Kakashi as he could get and buried his face in his hands. He wasn’t sure he could say this out loud to someone who wasn’t Anko. He wasn’t sure he could say it out loud again, at all, not after all this time walling it off so carefully. 

“Iruka?” Kakashi’s voice was soft. 

“They fucked my mouth,” Iruka said, words blunt but muffled by his hands. “I couldn’t stop them.” 

Iruka could have bitten them, could have fought back: he took a deep breath that was almost a sob, and felt a hesitant hand on his shoulder, not restraining, just offering comfort. 

_Damn you, Kakashi_ , Iruka thought. This would have been easier if he could have stayed angry. 

Iruka rubbed at his lips, a gesture he’d made himself give up in the months after his capture. Talking about it brought the pain flooding back, brought a bitter taste to the back of his mouth. He remembered Hayate’s team finding him by accident, following the trail of his fight and taking care of the Iwa missing-nin with so little trouble. 

He folded his hands in his lap and stared at them, fingers twisting around each other nervously. Kakashi was alarmingly silent beside him and Iruka tried not to remember the looks on Tsuzumi and Mizuki’s faces when they’d broken up with him. 

“I don’t date,” he bit out, “because things get complicated, and people get weird about that. It’s easier this way, except when people _grab me in a bar_.” 

Kakashi watched him for a moment. 

“Hm.” Kakashi said. His tone was carefully neutral and entirely unreadable. 

“You try it,” Iruka bit out. “See how much you like having someone grab your head after something like that.” 

“Mmm,” Kakashi said, and then “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” His tone was unexpectedly compassionate, slightly rough around the edges, with none of the blame or aversion Iruka had expected.

Maybe Kakashi wasn’t going to tell him he was weak or broken after all. He waited for more, but Kakashi was quiet beside him, and Iruka felt disorientation start to creep in. Had he over-reacted? In the absence of an opponent, Iruka felt the last of his anger run away like water from a cracked pot, leaving nothing but exhaustion and a kind of giddy relief in its wake. This wasn’t following Iruka’s anticipated script. Kakashi hadn’t thrown anything in Iruka’s face or implied that it was his own fault; he hadn’t even left in disgust. Mizuki had done both, called Iruka a tease and a slut and worse before slamming the door in his wake. Kakashi was just sitting here, waiting. 

Kakashi’s fingers twitched on his shoulder, the movement bespeaking hesitation, and Iruka wanted badly to wrap himself up in Kakashi, bury his face in Kakashi’s throat and find out exactly how broad Kakashi’s shoulders really were. But all he did, after a long moment, was lean into the touch, and let Kakashi scoot a little bit closer, until he nearly had an arm around Iruka’s shoulders. This was all he was going to get. 

_This is a friend,_ Iruka thought, _this is enough._

“I went into the field as a chuunin when I was six,” Kakashi said, his voice low and raspy. Iruka tensed up: he didn’t need the reminder right now that Kakashi had made rank ten years before him. 

“I was small for my age,” Kakashi said, “and apparently I looked like a girl.” He shrugged, tipping his head back: Iruka’s eye was drawn to the long line of his throat, and he felt his mouth go dry with want and fear at the same time. 

“I was captured for the first time when I was nine,” Kakashi continued. “He bound me, but not very well.” He paused for a moment. “I gutted him with his own blade when he tried to remove my mask.”

Iruka blinked. 

“I was only able to get his blade because he put it down to unfasten his pants.” Kakashi paused. 

Iruka took a breath, shocked. Surely Kakashi didn’t mean --

“I brought back his head in a scroll after I worked my way out of the bonds.” He quirked a grin, corners of his eye crinkling up in a way Iruka had come to recognize. “I didn’t realize until weeks later why Minato-sensei and Kushina-san were so furious. It turns out the man had a reputation as a pedophile. He’d have been much more careful if he’d captured an adult shinobi.” 

Iruka pulled back and flat-out stared, horrified on Kakashi’s behalf.

“They sent a _nine year old_ after a _pedophile_?” 

Kakashi shrugged again.

“They sent a 3-year-chuunin against someone with a known weakness.”

“What if something had --” Iruka stopped, realizing that he was implying Kakashi couldn’t take care of himself. “I mean, weren’t you -- did they have you talk to anyone?”

“Minato-sensei tried,” Kakashi admitted. “I told him nothing had happened, I had completed my mission, and if he had any problems with that, he could take them up with the mission desk. Then I went off to train.”

Iruka stifled a laugh. He imagined a smaller Kakashi, grim and driven, and the smile died off his lips. That had been a bare year after Kakashi’s father had died: no wonder the Yondaime and Kushina-san had been worried.

“It wouldn’t have done much good,” Kakashi said, “I’d have stonewalled them the same way I did Minato-sensei.” 

Iruka nodded. Then something else Kakashi had said occurred to him. 

“Did you say you brought his _head_ home _in a scroll_?” 

Kakashi shrugged. “The whole body would have been too heavy, and we only really wanted his ocular jutsu anyway.” 

He was so matter-of-fact about it. Iruka wondered if he could ever be so calm about killing someone, much less someone who had intended to rape him. 

“In any case, it’s not the same thing. I killed him and came home. What happened to you was different.” 

Iruka felt as if someone had just dumped a bucket of ice water down his spine. 

“Hey, hey,” Kakashi said, raising his hands as if to ward off an attack, “I don’t mean that you -- no offense meant. I’m not trying to say its the same.”

“Right,” Iruka said, feeling what little peace he’d gleaned from Kakashi’s presence evaporate. “Well,” he concluded, getting to his feet, “now you know why I don’t date.” He picked up his Academy bag and started shuffling papers, an obvious dismissal. 

“Oh,” Kakashi replied. He sounded almost confused. “Well, then.” He stood, favoring the instep Iruka had savagely mashed during class, and went to the door. “I’ll see you around,” he said, and Iruka nodded without looking up. 

**

Kakashi took Kurenai’s team out on another mission the next day, following rumors of Sound nin at Konoha’s borders. It was something of a relief not to have to see Kakashi around town. Iruka had slept badly, nightmares about his capture running through his head, and he’d gotten up to vomit in the middle of the night. 

_Why did I tell him that?_ Iruka thought, disgusted. _I could have just said I wasn’t interested and been coldly polite._ No matter how normally Kakashi had seemed to take the news, Iruka had no idea where things went from here. Would Kakashi think this was something Iruka told to just anyone, and let it slip to someone else? Iruka imagined Guy, Kakashi’s closest confidant, giving him a pep talk like those he gave Lee and shuddered. He just hoped it didn’t mess up his friendship with Kakashi too much. Iruka had no illusions about his ability to maintain a relationship, but he liked Kakashi, liked his laugh and the way he listened to Iruka even when Genma was showing off, liked Kakashi’s long fingers and -- 

“Hm?” Iruka asked, looking up when someone hit him on the shoulder. He managed not to knock over his drink, but it was a near thing. 

“Hey, Iruka-sensei.” It was Inuzuka Hana, her long hair loose across her shoulders for a change. “You were Kiba’s Academy instructor, right?” Iruka blinked at her, disoriented. 

“Yes?” He asked. “Um, have a seat?” 

She slid gracefully into the seat across from him shouldering Genma farther into the corner as if he had simply been holding a seat for her. Her three dogs clustered around her feet: Iruka tried to tuck his legs up under him on the bench and banged his knees painfully on the underside of the table. 

“So I was talking to Kiba,” she said, “and he says you do extra lessons at the Academy.” Iruka nodded, which made the bar wobble. “I just wanted to thank you for that,” she said, taking one of his hands. 

Her fingers were callused and scarred, working hands for all that she was a veterinarian. She had been going into the field as much as any other chuunin these days: more often than some, since her three ninken made her as good in a fight as two other Inuzuka. “It really helped him with Hinata. And it’s good for them to know what might happen out there.” 

“Like anyone’s going to attack an Inuzuka kunoichi,” Genma jibed, elbowing her, “you’ve all got a second set of fangs.” He made an obscene gesture and Hana grinned at him. 

“I’m not saying we Inuzuka need the help,” she pointed out, “but it’s sweet of you to think of the other girls, Iruka-sensei. And it’s good for the boys to know what we’re up against.” 

_Oh_ , Iruka thought, _is that how people outside the Academy see it_. 

“Well,” he managed, shuffling his feet and earning an aggrieved yip from one of the Haimaru brothers, “I think it’s important to be aware of. And,” his mind caught at a coherent phrase, “talking to psych will be better, because they’re trained for it.” He sounded like Tsunade. 

“Oh, right,” Hana said, looking surprised at the apparent non-sequitor, “you’re working on that thing for Tsunade-sama. Is it really going to be mandatory?” Iruka waved a hand and almost knocked over his drink again. 

“It’s still in the works,” he said, vaguely. 

“Hana!” Kiba called from across the bar, “are you coming, or what?” She stood, and her dogs poured out from under the table, jostling everyone’s legs in the process. 

“So long, Iruka-sensei,” she said with a bright smile. Iruka smiled back, and then looked back down at his drink. So people thought he was doing his lessons for the girls. He sighed. 

“Go home,” Anko scolded him, “you’re exhausted and you’re no fun tonight anyway.” 

“Kakashi’s on a mission,” Genma pointed out. “You’re not going to run into him here tonight.” 

Iruka felt himself flush. He should have expected gossip to get around after Kakashi kissed him in a bar. 

“Besides,” Genma added, grinning at Iruka and twitching his senbon suggestively, “do you really want to make up in public?” 

“No,” Iruka protested, “I mean --” he shook his head. “There’s nothing there. You know me better than that.” 

Anko made a skeptical face at him, and Genma slid away from the table and headed off Izumo and Kotetsu, dragging them over to drink with him at another table. That left Anko and Iruka alone in a corner, which was fine with Iruka. One of Anko’s snakes crawled out of her sleeve and curled up on the edge of the table, warning off friends and those looking for chairs. The acoustics in here were intentionally terrible from table to table, so they didn’t need to worry about being overheard without jutsu. 

“Iruka?” Anko’s tone was even, but her eyes were troubled. She leaned in and took his hands. 

“I told him,” Iruka admitted. “That was so stupid. He crashed my lesson instead of Guy-sensei and waited for me after class and followed me home and I went and told him fucking everything.” He put his face in his hands. “Why did I do that?” He asked, aware his tone was plaintive.

“Because you like him,” Anko said, slipping onto the bench next to him. “And maybe because you needed to talk about it.” 

“Because that goes so well,” Iruka said into his hands. “Look at Mizuki.” 

“Yeah,” Anko agreed dryly, “what a stand-up shinobi he ended up being, too. Pull a different one, Iruka. Not everyone’s that much of a jerk.” 

Iruka glared at her, and she glared back. 

“So,” Anko pushed, “how’d he take it?” 

“Um,” Iruka said. He looked around, saw how most of the bar had noticed Anko’s snake and was conspicuously ignoring them. She had a history of going all-out on anyone who ignored her particular sign for “Private Conversation: You’re Not Invited” which made the little reptile sleeping in a pile on the table better for privacy than most jutsu. 

“It was …” Iruka started. He wasn’t sure this was his story to tell, but this was _Anko_. “It was strange. He told me about something similar happening when he was a chuunin.” Iruka shook his head, remembering. “Except he brought the guy’s head home in a scroll, and I had to be fucking rescued by _Hayate_.” 

Anko’s eyes glittered with suppressed mirth. “Pre-teen Kakashi took a would-be rapist’s head home in a sealing scroll?” She quirked a wide grin, showing canines almost sharp enough to belong to a Mist kunoichi. 

Her obvious amusement made Iruka smile, too -- the story was pretty crazy. Trust Kakashi to turn the tables on a would-be rapist, indeed. He felt a little flutter of warmth, and quickly squashed it.

Anko gripped his hands tighter. “Iruka, tell me I can share -- no, of course not.” 

This, Iruka thought, was why he talked to Anko. For all that she was one of Konoha’s uncrowned gossip queens, she knew when to keep her mouth shut. 

“No,” Iruka confirmed, “I just -- he tells me, and then he says it’s _different_.” He downed the rest of his drink and slammed the glass on the table. “What does that even mean?” 

“I’ve got a crazy idea,” Anko told him. “Ask him.” Iruka blinked at her, feeling tired and bleary all of a sudden. 

“He’s not here,” Iruka pointed out. It seemed a reasonable objection at the moment. 

“When he gets back,” she clarified. “And that’s it, I’m taking you home.” 

**

Several days later, Iruka was less tired, but no less out of sorts. 

It was just Iruka’s luck that today was the quarterly report on the Academy to the Hokage and council, and the instructor responsible was sick. 

"Iruka-sensei," Suzume-sensei said, a desperate look in her eyes, "you delivered the report to the Sandaime before, and you know Tsunade-sama better than I do. Won't you please -- I hardly know the paperwork, and you went over it with Asano-sensei before he fell ill." 

"When is it?" Iruka asked, feeling his stomach tighten. 

"Now," Suzume admitted. "I was on my way over -- but you will do it, won't you?" She shoved the papers into his hands and darted off before he could protest.

The councilors were already in the Hokage’s office when Iruka arrived slightly out of breath and a minute late. They were seated in the same places they had occupied when the Sandaime had been in office. It was a eerie call back to the past, almost as if they still hoped Sarutobi might return and save them from Tsunade's endless pushes for more medical support.

"Iruka-sensei," Tsunade said, sounding not at all surprised, "we look forward to your report on the Academy's status this quarter." The councilors looked sour, but then, Iruka thought, they usually did. Iruka opened his folder, and started to separate out the stacks of paper for each person present.

“Hm,” Utatane Koharu said, before Iruka could launch into the litany of graduations, injuries, achievements and material needs. “Umino-sensei. Would you care to explain the diversion of jounin to teach unapproved, non-standard lessons?” 

Iruka’s back stiffened. 

“Utatane-san,” he began, but Mitokado Homura cut him off, his tone incredulous. 

“Last week, you re-scheduled an A-rank mission in order to have Konoha’s Copy Nin teach your students about _talking to their teammates_.” 

Iruka tried to keep shock from his face. He could throw Kakashi to the council, admit that he’d planned for Guy-sensei, that he had nothing to do with mission rescheduling, but that would be admitting guilt. 

“Yes,” Iruka admitted instead, “I teach additional lessons. My students pass the Academy graduation exam at a higher rate than other classes. They also graduate prepared to deal with any kind of assault they may face in the field. I think those results speak for themselves.”

Utatane sniffed, the ornaments in her hair swinging wildly. “The kunoichi instructors cover that more than adequately, Iruka-sensei.” In her sweet tones, ‘- _sensei_ ’ sounded like an insult. 

Tsunade had steepled her hands in front of her face and was watching the conversation with the kind of attention Iruka had previously only seen her devote to gambling. No help there, then. Shizune looked stricken, but was obviously not going to step in if Tsunade was silent. 

Iruka took a deep breath, quelling rising anger. 

“You admit to wasting the time of jounin who are desperately needed in the field at this time of Konoha’s weakness?” Mitokado pressed, apparently taking Iruka’s silence as an admission of weakness. “Even though shinobi of their rank have more valuable duties than playing with Academy students and instructors.” 

Iruka remembered the look on Hinata’s face the first time he’d brought Guy-sensei in and demonstrated that even their Academy instructor could be overpowered, the relief dawning in her eyes at this admission. He remembered seeing Konohamaru telling Guy-sensei, of all people, how worried he was about his grandfather’s death, and several days later, seeing Udon comforting him. Those moments had felt like an achievement at the time, like the first steps toward teammates who would have asked Iruka what was wrong when he came home from his capture, like shinobi who knew the right questions to ask and how to leave people alone only when they wanted it. 

“Yes,” Iruka broke in, “I admit it. I was under the impression that educating the youth of Konoha was a respected occupation. And wasn’t it your jounin-sensei, the Nidaime Hokage himself, who insisted on the creation of the Academy in the first place? I can hardly think of a better use of the time of jounin who are on forced rest.”

Utatane opened her eyes in surprise, and Mitokado sat back slightly. 

“There are provisions in place for exposing our children to jounin,” Mitokado rumbled, “and you bringing in your friends to teach lessons that not every class gets is favoritism at best. your fellow-teachers do not like seeing their classes get short shrift just because they do not happen to be … close … with Konoha’s jounin.” His implications turned Iruka’s stomach. 

“If my fellow-teachers have any interest in these lessons,” Iruka pointed out, clinging to reason, “I've offered to help them set up the same ones for their classes. They haven't taken me up on the offer. Given the amount of variance in teaching already present at the Academy, I fail to see how the offer of additional instruction across the board, given by jounin who are on rest can be detrimental to our students.” He took a deep breath and glanced at Tsunade. 

“Is this related to your new initiative, Tsunade?” Utatane said, shifting to look at Tsunade. “Making talking to psych after all enemy contact mandatory is a waste of time, as you well know.” 

“Is it?” Tsunade mused, hands still steepled. “Iruka-sensei, what do you think?”

Iruka stared at her, feeling betrayed. But he wasn’t about to undercut her in front of the councilors, whose support of Danzo was far too overt for Iruka’s taste. 

“Making talking to psych mandatory is the only way to dispel the stigma currently associated with it,” Iruka offered. “Better adjusted shinobi and kunoichi will serve Konoha better in the field, and shinobi who know they have an outlet will break less often and less dramatically.” 

He looked the councilors in the eye, hoping he didn’t look as raw as he felt. 

“Huh,” Utatane sniffed. “You’ll create a generation of soft, sob-story shinobi. In my day, shinobi did their jobs and didn’t whine about it. They know the risks going in.” 

_‘Didn’t whine about it’_ Iruka wondered whether she had ever had a shred of empathy, or if long years of service to Konoha had bled her dry as a husk while playing the balancing weight to the Sandaime’s better nature and willingness to see the good in everything and everyone. 

“In your day,” Tsunade pointed out mildly, folding her hands on the desk, “teams went into the field without medics and died choking on their own blood. Since integrating a medical corps, our casualty and fatality rates have dropped dramatically. If I recall correctly, you also opposed that change.” 

“That may be,” Mitokado admitted. “But we were talking about the Academy and Umino-sensei’s cavalier re-allocation of war-time resources.”

Iruka felt anger begin to bubble up again. He was so _careful_ about picking times and dates for such lessons. It seemed especially unfair that he should be raked over the coals for Kakashi’s unwanted rescheduling of his lesson.

“And, really,” Utatane added, “Umino-sensei, there’s no point in teaching the same lesson twice.” 

_Twice_ , Iruka thought. _Or never, if you’re a boy in another class._ He wasn’t sure his lessons worked for all of his students, but he remembered seeing Udon put a hand on Konohamaru’s shoulder in support, remembered wondering what it would have been like if he had had that kind of empathetic support from someone other than Anko. 

“You will cease these wasteful lessons immediately,” Utatane announced, her earrings clicking and swinging wildly. “Our kunoichi instructors are more than capable, and you will stop undermining them.” 

“I’m not doing this for the _girls!_ ” Iruka broke in, hands shaking at his sides, trying to escape the memory of hands fisted in his hair. “Our enemies don't care who they catch, boy or girl! They're just as happy with either -- and maybe you'd know that if you'd been in the field in the last twenty years instead of sitting pretty behind Konoha's wards and walls!”

There were twin expressions of shock on the councillors’ faces. Iruka felt his stomach roil unpleasantly, knowing he’d just stepped far over any acceptable line. He didn’t dare look at Tsunade: he could feel her glare, feel the roiling in her massive chakra. He had never felt her so angry before. 

“If you’ll excuse me, Hokage-sama,” he managed, and practically ran from the room. He made it to the bathroom at the end of the hall, locked the door behind himself, and was messily sick. 

_Well_ , he thought, sitting down and leaning his head back against the locked door with his arms looped around his knees, _that was a shit show. I didn't even give the Academy report._ He wasn’t angry at the council -- or not only at the council. Their attitude toward assault was the same one that made him teach his additional classes, make sure his male students were as prepared as he could make them. And they had been insulting, but not enough to merit that level of response. They had served Konoha longer than he had been alive, had worked with the Nidaime Hokage, and been teammates of Tsunade’s jounin-sensei. She was bound to be outraged. 

_I need to get a handle on this_ , Iruka thought. 

He sat there for an indeterminate amount of time, letting the cool tile of the door seep into his back, eyes closed, trying not to re-live the moments of his capture, his recent nightmares, his outburst at the councilors. 

Iruka wondered if Tsunade would take him talking to someone in psych as him volunteering to be the face of her new initiative -- he didn’t think he could handle that. Even the idea of asking Anko for the right name or phone number was almost too daunting. 

The tiles under his feet were worn and almost grey with age, the cracks between them large enough to be felt through the soles of his sandals. 

_Kakashi didn’t take it that badly_ , he thought. Surely Tsunade was right and someone with training would take it better.

A tap on the door surprised him. 

“Iruka-sensei,” Shizune said, sounding hesitant. “Tsunade-sama would like to speak with you.” 

It was pointless trying to pretend he wasn’t here. As a medi-nin and a sensor, Shizune had to be able to read his chakra signature. Iruka pulled himself to his feet, rinsed his mouth out again, and opened the door, doing his best to put on his most neutral expression. 

“Of course, Shizune-san,” he said. 

To Iruka’s great relief, the councilors were gone when he and Shizune got back to Tsunade’s office. Tsunade looked up, nodded, and Shizune shut the door behind them. 

“I’m so sorry, Hokage-sama--” Iruka started. 

“Yes, yes, of course you are,” Tsunade interrupted him. “And you’d better be. They may be dried-up old husks, but they serve Konoha to the best of their ability, and you’ve no right to throw their age in their faces like that. They deserve more respect from you, Iruka-sensei.” 

Iruka wilted, and Tsunade softened slightly.

“But,” she added, “did you see the looks on their faces? It’s almost worth the amount of yelling I’m going to hear from them later.” Shizune coughed her ‘you’re not taking this seriously enough’ cough. Iruka looked at his feet. 

“In all seriousness, Iruka,” Tsunade said, and her tone was quieter, “I have no objection to your additional lessons. Your rationale makes sense. Just try to be slightly more circumspect about the scheduling of it next time. And get another teacher on board so they can’t pull the favoritism card on me again.”

Iruka looked up, surprised. 

“I assume Kakashi changed the schedules himself,” Tsunade added, “since I know you usually ask Guy-sensei.” 

Iruka nodded, surprised that she knew that much about his lessons. 

“I’ll have a word with the brat,” Tsunade said, shaking her head. She had to be the only person in Konoha who could get away with calling the Copy Nin that, Iruka thought. “He has to learn sometime that he can’t just wiggle things around to suit him, no matter how much leeway I give him elsewhere.” 

“I’ve added a list of councilors to the paperwork you’ll be processing later,” Tsunade added. “None of them are affiliated with Danzo’s faction, and all of them understand how imperative confidentiality is.” She quirked a grin. “One or two used to work with me in the medical corps, before they invalided out, so they’ve even been in the field during wartime.” 

Iruka tried not to slump with visible relief. Now he wouldn’t have to ask Anko -- or anyone else -- for a name.

“Yes, Hokage-sama,” he managed. 

“Now,” Tsunade said, gesturing at Iruka’s desk. “Since you’ve got the rest of the day off from the Academy for this damned quarterly report, you might as well get to --” 

A buzzer sounded, and Tsunade looked up, instantly alert. Shizune popped the door open, and Sakura almost fell into the room, so surprised at the speed at which the door had swung inward. 

“Hokage-sama,” Sakura gasped, “Kakashi-sensei and Team 8 just got back. Kakashi-sensei is injured, but they sent me to tell you that he’ll be all right, it’s just his left arm, some ribs, and a minor concussion.” She propped her hands on her knees, breathing hard. Iruka felt his heart clench in worry. Even a minor concussion could slow a shinobi down for days, and Kakashi probably didn’t have days to recover before they would have to send him out again. 

Then, watching Sakura pant for breath, Iruka wondered whether the hospital sent runners to Tsunade every time a jounin returned injured, or if it was just for Kakashi. Iruka half-suspected sometimes that Tsunade had put him on the psych initiative with Iruka just to get a sense for how Kakashi handled paperwork. In his more paranoid and self-assured moments, Iruka wondered if Tsunade was grooming Iruka to be the next Shizune, since Kakashi actually seemed to listen to him where paperwork was concerned. 

“Iruka-sensei,” Tsunade said, holding out a scroll, “take this to Kakashi, will you? Sakura, you can go with him.” 

Iruka stared at her. He wasn't sure he was up to seeing Kakashi again right now, no matter what he'd said to Anko. 

"Iruka-sensei?" Tsunade prompted. 

"Yes," Iruka said, "of course, Hokage-sama." Surely if he was delivering a message from the Hokage, Kakashi wouldn't take it the wrong way. Though Iruka wasn't sure exactly what the 'wrong' way was, at the moment. He followed Sakura out the door at a more reserved pace.

**

Kakashi was in the same room Tsunade had brought Iruka to several months before, but this time Team Eight was clustered in the room as well. Kiba, one wrist in a brace, was ruffling Akamaru’s fur and telling him what a good dog he was while Hinata, close to tears, sat on the edge of Kakashi’s bed, anxiously watching as a medic healed his arm. Shino stood in a corner, apparently unhurt but probably tired, given the stoop to his shoulders and how few of his kikaichu were visible. 

“It’s my fault,” Hinata said, her voice so soft Iruka could hardly hear her from the doorway. He paused, not wanting to interrupt. Shino appeared to see him, but didn’t say anything. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Kiba snapped, “it’s that asshole’s fault for going missing nin in the first place.” 

“But if you weren’t protecting me, Kakashi-sensei --” 

Kakashi lifted his right arm and put a hand on her arm. 

“That’s my job,” he said, and Iruka could tell he’d taken a blow to the throat. “You’re the closest thing the team has to a medic, with the Byakugan. We keep you safe.” 

“Besides,” Shino spoke up, surprising Iruka, “he was at least two ranks above us. Remember Iruka-sensei’s lessons.”

“But--” Hinata sighed. 

“You’re never going to be a taijutsu powerhouse, so you need to work on avoiding blows,” Kakashi told her. Hinata wilted, obviously thinking of Neji’s use of the Byakugan at the chuunin exams.

“Kakashi-sensei,” Iruka stepped into the room. Kakashi turned his head and winced. 

“All of you, out,” the medic snapped. “He has a concussion, for god’s sake. This noise is not helping. Iruka-sensei, take them somewhere else.” 

Iruka glanced at Kakashi, who gave a sort of shrug that earned him a glare from the medic. That could mean anything from "stay here" to "thank you for taking care of my team." Iruka sighed and, at another glare from the medic, shepherded his charges out of the room and into one of the lounges, where he got Hinata to sit down. 

“Tsunade’s about to sign a new edict,” he told them. “It makes going to talk to psych after contact with enemy shinobi mandatory. It won’t go into effect for a little while, but she’s looking for volunteers.” He gave them the name of one of the counselors Tsunade had slipped into the top of the paperwork -- a Yamanaka in the Hokage’s camp, someone they’d probably trust because they knew Ino -- patted Hinata on the head, and stood to head back to Kakashi’s room. 

“Iruka-sensei,” Hinata asked, “have you ever talked to psych?” Her voice wavered a little bit. He turned and smiled at them. 

“No,” he admitted, “but I’m planning on it. Tell them I sent you.” Hinata gave a wavering nod, and Kiba grabbed her hand in support.

“Iruka-sensei,” Hinata quavered, “will you come with us?” It sounded as if asking had taken the last reserves of courage she had stored up: glancing back at her, Iruka saw her shoulders hunched in expectation of denial. He looked toward Kakashi’s room, then sighed. Kakashi wasn’t going anywhere, if that medi-nin had anything to say about it. Iruka could come straight back.

“Yes,” he granted, “yes, Hinata, I’ll come with you.” 

**

Psych wasn't far from the hospital, on the same side of town, in a nondescript building that was as daunting as ever. Iruka was certain that if he had come on his own, he never would have made it in the front door -- as it was, he drew on his ‘sensei’ persona, took Hinata’s hand, and marched the four of them straight in. 

“I’d like to see Yamanaka Iza, please,” Iruka said. “It’s related to Tsunade-sama’s new initiative.” The secretary took one look at Kiba, Hinata and Shino, obviously unhurt, and raised an eyebrow. “Now.” Iruka grated. He had always been better at defending others than himself, after all. 

“Yamanaka-san is not on duty at the moment,” the secretary said. “You can make an appointment?” He sounded dubious. 

“Is Tanaka Eri on duty?” Iruka asked, pulling another of Tsunade’s names from memory. “Or Tanjiro Kou?” 

The secretary nodded. “Both of them,” he admitted. Well, that was something. Iruka made a snap decision, remembering how difficult it had been to get himself in the door even with Hinata, Kiba and Shino with him.

“Hinata, Kiba, Shino,” Iruka said, “you go speak with Tanjiro-san. Tell him what I told you about Tsunade’s plan, and that I sent you.” Tanjiro would have to take care of getting them to talk about the mission. Iruka gave them his best encouraging smile. Kiba looked dubious, but Hinata managed a small smile in return, and Shino stood up a little straighter. Iruka took a breath, and turned back to the secretary. 

“I need to speak with Tanaka-san,” Iruka told the man. 

"Right that way," the secretary told them. "The doors are marked." Iruka urged his former students ahead of him and saw them into Tanjiro Kou's room, then stood for a long moment before the next door, marked simply "Tanaka Eri." He had just raised his hand to knock when someone pulled the door open from inside. 

"Hello, Iruka-sensei," a woman said, smiling brightly, "won't you come in?" Her tone was casual and friendly, and she stepped back in a way that made a space Iruka instinctively stepped into without thinking about it. 

"Tanaka-san," Iruka said, hesitant.

"Eri," she corrected, "and please, sit down." She sat in one of three identical chairs. Iruka looked at the two remaining, wondering whether there was some kind of test here. "They're just the same," she said. "Some people prefer to face the door, some the windows. You can move them if you'd like." She smiled, as if she explained this to everyone, and somehow, it didn't seem condescending, though it easily could have been. 

"I'm not--" Iruka started. "I'm working with Tsunade-sama on the new psych initiative." 

Eri smiled again. 

"Well," she said, "why don't you tell me about it." 

**

When Iruka got out of Eri's office, nearly half an hour had passed, and they had talked about more than just Tsunade's initiative. Iruka's head was swimming, and he still wasn't sure why he had agreed to another appointment, but he felt lighter than he had in some time. He stopped a block or two from the Psych building and tried to gather his thoughts. 

Kakashi, he remembered. He's still in the hospital. But when Iruka got back to the hospital, the orderly just shook his head. 

"Hatake-san already left," he said, "maybe ten minutes ago, when they finally cleared him of concussion. Wouldn't stay, but he doesn't." Iruka thanked the man, berating himself internally for having taken so long. _You could have talked to Eri any time_ , he told himself. _Now what are you going to do?_ Talking with Kakashi suddenly seemed urgent in a way it hadn't before. The frisson of fear Iruka had felt at hearing that Kakashi was injured came back to him. _We have to sort this out_ , he thought. _That's more than how I worry about Anko_. 

When Iruka finally tracked Kakashi down, he was standing in front of the memorial stone. 

“Did they let you out, or did you climb out the window?” Iruka asked, trying a joke to break the ice. Kakashi turned to mock-glare at him. 

“I did that _once_ ,” he insisted. 

“And yet,” Iruka pointed out, “Tsunade still remembers it. Possibly it has to do with you having both arms in slings at the time.” He smiled at Kakashi, who smiled tentatively back. He looked troubled, though, and Iruka knew he would want to stay here for a time. That was fine with Iruka: he had plenty to think about, himself, and the memorial stone was as good a place as any right now. They stood in a companionable silence for a time, then, when Kakashi’s body language relaxed slightly, Iruka turned to go, cocking his head in invitation. 

When they go to Iruka’s apartment, Kakashi dropped their bags in the usual corner while Iruka made tea. 

Iruka supposed he could start by bringing up the council, but that seemed like a sure way to start an argument, and he’d had enough fighting. 

“So I thought we could talk about the other day,” Iruka offered, setting out tea and sitting down beside Kakashi. 

“What do you want to talk about?” Kakashi asked. It was textbook perfect from Iruka’s lesson. Iruka supposed he should have known better by now than to think that Kakashi was checked out just because he looked like he wasn’t paying attention. Iruka steeled himself. If he could talk to psych, he could ask Kakashi what he’d meant by his actions. Surely he could.

“We need to talk about what you --” he took a breath, “I mean, what do you want out of this? From me? Sex? Or a -- relationship?”

Kakashi nodded at that. Iruka supposed that had been kind of a vague question, but Kakashi's answer wasn't very helpful. 

“You know I’m not exactly -- normal -- about relationships,” Iruka warned. Kakashi cracked a grin, visible only in the crinkling of the skin beside his eye. 

“I mean,” Iruka said, “I know we talked about why, but …” he shrugged. “I mean, I haven’t dated anyone for ages because it hasn’t worked.” That was an understatement. 

Kakashi nodded. 

“So I thought if you were serious,” Iruka said, “we should talk about it.” 

Kakashi nodded again. His fingers twitched in the way that meant he was quelling the urge to reach for his book. 

“Do you want to maybe say anything?” Iruka snapped. “I tell you something like ‘I’m not normal’ and I kind of expect some kind of response!” 

Kakashi blinked at him. “Iruka,” he said, “I had figured that out a long time ago. Normal people don’t take a fuma shuriken in the back for a jinchuuriki and then yell at jounin on his behalf.” 

Torn between a desire to laugh and to yell at Kakashi, Iruka glared out of sheer reflex.

“Seriously,” Kakashi said, correctly interpreting his look, “normal people are boring. You,” he cocked his head to one side, “are anything but.” 

“What does that even _mean_?” Iruka asked. He sounded a bit petulant, but he was feeling raw and exhausted from the day, not in the mood to decipher Kakashi’s cryptic statements. "You tell me that story, and then say it's _different_ , and then you say I'm not normal -- what do you mean?" 

“I don’t like normal,” Kakashi admitted. “I like _you_.” He looked down. "And before, I meant -- I don't understand all the way, what it was like for you -- so that's not the same thing at all. I got away." He paused, and Iruka waited. "But," Kakashi added, "I think maybe I understand some of it, a little. I was small, at that age."

When he was nine, he meant. And given how hard he was looking at his fingers, that was probably more than he’d planned to say. Iruka nodded, knowing Kakashi would track the movement in his peripheral vision.

“Your turn,” Kakashi said. Iruka took a sip of tea to cover his consternation. “Why now? You don’t owe me anything.”

Iruka paused in setting down his teacup. He’d assumed that his growing attraction to Kakashi had been obvious. 

“I mean,” Kakashi said, “if I’m just a convenient test, I’d rather not …” 

“No!” Iruka broke in. “No, that’s not it.” He grinned. “You’re about as convenient as I am normal, Kakashi.” 

He’d meant it as a joke, but it fell flat. Kakashi’s expression went blank, and Iruka sighed. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I meant, I like --” he paused. “I like spending time with you.” He lifted one of Kakashi’s hands in his own and interlaced their fingers carefully before pulling it to his lips and kissing the back of Kakashi’s hand. “I like your hands. I like how worried you are about Naruto. ” He looked at their hands, unwilling to see the expression on Kakashi’s face. "I like you." Had that been too much? 

“Well,” Kakashi said. He sounded a little surprised. “Good.” 

Well, that was an opening, if he was ever going to get one. Iruka leaned in and lifted his hand to the edge of Kakashi’s mask. 

“So,” he said, feeling his breath catch in his throat, “can I?” 

Kakashi blinked both eyes at him, genuinely surprised. 

“I thought you don’t --”

“I don’t,” Iruka admitted. “Usually. And I’ve got a ton of hang-ups. But I’m sick of being scared of it,” Iruka said. “I want to try. With you.” Kakashi looked at him for a long moment, then nodded. Iruka saw that the scar through Kakashi’s eye extended farther down than he would have expected, and then Kakashi’s lips were pressed almost hesitantly to his, unmoving. 

After an awkward moment of almost complete stillness, Iruka pulled back.

“How was that?” Kakashi asked. His lips were pale, lighter than the scar bisecting his Sharingan eye, and he looked worried. 

“Pretty terrible,” Iruka admitted. “Look, just -- just don’t grab my head, okay? But you can actually kiss me.”

This time, when Kakashi pressed their lips together, Iruka kissed back, encouraging Kakashi to move, to respond, stamping down on the instinct to pull away. Instead he wrapped a hand behind Kakashi’s neck and pulled him closer, amazed when Kakashi allowed it, when Kakashi moved at the slightest touch, responding to Iruka’s direction. 

Eventually, Iruka let him pull away. 

“So,” Kakashi asked, his cheeks pinked. _Adorable_ , Iruka thought. “We can try this?” 

Iruka grinned, laced his fingers in the hair at the nape of Kakashi’s neck and reeled him in for another kiss.


End file.
